this is my kingdom come
by AlannasTara
Summary: "Ya said it was worse than I knew. How bad was it?" Daryl and Carol come together at a Creeptastic House and have a long overdue conversation. Carol x Daryl. CARYL


**AN:** **Thank you Whoswhatsitwhich for helping me plot this, and Meeshie for beta-ing and fixing my endless screwups. LOVE YOU BOTH! And I couldn't do it without you!**

 **Notes:** ** ***** ** _Spoilers for season 4, season 5, season 6, and season 7***_** **Based on filming spoilers putting Carol and Daryl alone in a house for a conversation in season 7, episode 10. The title is taken from a line in the song "Demons" by Imagine Dragons, which I listened to endlessly, while writing this fic**

 _Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

 _Your eyes, they shine so bright_

 _I wanna save that light_

 _I can't escape this now_

 _Unless you show me how_

 _"Demons" by Imagine Dragons_

The clip-clopping of the horses' hooves rang out against the pavement in the stillness of the autumn air. Echoing in the valley, she heard their approach on the abandoned road far before she could see the riders come into view. Miles away from the main settlement, she was still ensconced in Kingdom's boundaries, but far enough that no one really visited, save for Morgan. She wasn't in the mood for company today, so she sincerely hoped he didn't think she was going to entertain him.

She used the walking stick he'd fashioned for her to lever herself up out of the chair at the old, battered kitchen table, and limped to the door, her free hand at her side, grasping her knife. She waited there, peeking out the window, her breath coming faster, shallower, more labored as her anxiety kicked up. Regardless of how "safe" she was supposed to be here at this outpost, she still felt every ounce of her vulnerability-injured, alone.

The tawny hides crested the rise in front of the house, and she could see the men dismount before she could discern their features enough to tell if they were familiar, friend or foe. One man seemed to stagger, limping, but refused any offer of help from the others next to him.

" _Stubborn fool_ ," she muttered to herself. Flinching at the sound in the silence, she wondered how long had it been since she'd heard her own voice?

The riders drew closer and she gasped as the shaggy hair of the injured man took on the oh so familiar form of her best friend. The one person she never thought she would see again…

" _Carol!_ "

Daryl's voice was hoarse, reedy, the wind trying to steal it away before it reached her ears across the distance. Her heart pounded against her ribs, blood rushing, and she felt the pricking, stinging of tears in her eyes.

He tried to move faster, run to her just like that day in the woods outside of Terminus, but his injuries were visibly holding him back. What had happened to him since she left? He was favoring his left shoulder and arm, and there were such dark circles under his eyes that she couldn't tell if they were from exhaustion or remnants of bruises inflicted by fists. Bruises elsewhere made her think it was the latter. Yellow, purple, green, blue-his skin was a map of blurred contusions, bloodied, beaten…

She inhaled shakily, feeling the tears spill over her cheeks, as he enfolded her in his arms. His own breath was coming in pants and gasps, rasping and wheezing, as he whispered nonsense in her ear.

" _Din't think...I can't...You're here. Real…_ "

His hands couldn't stay still, passing over her shoulders, combing through her hair, holding her to him, squeezing, fingers gentling over her cheekbones as he leaned back and gazed into her eyes.

She let out a sigh and he pulled her back to him, nesting her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. She rested her forehead against him and for one moment she embraced everything he was giving to her. She grasped at the affection, the acceptance, _the love._ The hole, the aching blackness she felt inside was filled with light and warmth in his presence, however temporary she knew it would be.

She breathed in his scent, consigning it to memory, pressing her face to his jacket, before turning away, putting distance between them.

"Come inside," she murmured, walking through the doorway, the stick thudding against the creaking floorboards with each step forward. He followed, waving the other riders away, giving each of 'em a look that said " _Get lost_!"

She heated up some oatmeal, and brewed some kind of mint tea concoction, falling into the comfortable role of nurturer, caretaker. Old habits die hard.

She watched as he ate like he hadn't seen food in weeks, and mourned that she didn't have more provisions, wondering again just what had happened to him in the time since she'd seen him last. The spoon scraped the bowl and he tipped up the mug, draining the last dregs of tea, licking his chapped lips of any stray drops. When he looked up to meet her eyes, her gaze skittered away to examine the hem of her pants.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, quietly. "I told you not to come after me."

"Yeah, well, last I checked, I'm a grown man. Least that's what you said. Figured I could decide for myself what I want to do."

"I'm not going back. _I can't_."

Even she could hear the desperation in her statement, a plea for understanding. Her lip was working, trembling, as she fought to keep her composure. Whatever had happened, nothing had changed.

 _Not really._

* * *

He watched as she struggled, waging an inner battle, one he didn't know anything about, and one he didn't know how to help her win. He knew he couldn't make her tell him what was wrong. If there was nothing else he gleaned from that book he'd snatched from the shelter, it was that a person had to feel safe, comfortable, had to have someone to depend on if they were going to try to process traumatic events. They had to have what those fancy writers called "emotional resources."

And he knew somethin' traumatic had happened. She was different since the prison. She hadn't come back the same. There was a weight on her. The kind you'd see on people comin' back from wars and shit. That PTSD shit. He had to wonder what effect havin' Rick toss her out like old garbage had had on her and her "emotional resources."

He couldn't do anything for her but be here with her, and so that's what he was gonna do. He looked outside and saw the sun lowering past the horizon, dusk falling over the trees and a light fog misting the ground. They'd sent the other riders back on to ol' Zeke earlier, and so Daryl wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"What happened to you?" The question came softly in his direction, and yet despite how quietly she asked, it irked him all the same.

"'S nothin'," he scoffed, unwilling to delve into matters even more delicate and painful, not wanting to open up his own wounds.

"It's not 'nothing'," Carol replied, pushing against his resistance, eyeing his injuries.

"You'd know...if you hadn't left," he returned, not unkindly, just resigned. _Tired_. Exhausted from everything that had happened to them, from trying to push her to let go and trust him… trying since Georgia _. Hurt_. More than any of the physical injuries he had, the mental and emotional wounds ached the most.

"I told you why I had to leave. I left a note."

"After all we been through, you think _a note_ is enough?" he asked in disbelief.

"You would rather I just tell everyone, ' _He'll understand,'_ " Carol tossed back at him, emotion bleeding into her response, the old insecurities coming back in full force. Remembering all the feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness his choosing his brother had caused to surface.

"How can I understand _anything_ , Carol, when you won't fuckin' talk to me? I been waitin' since I found you at that car, for you to _talk_ to me, _let me in_!" His voice had risen in frustration, his own helplessness in the situation angering him. He wasn't used to not being able to _do something_.

"I tried, in Atlanta, _I tried._ You just told me to forget it. Start over. 'Fuck the way it was,' is what you said, or did you forget?" She bit her lip against the pain and grief bubbling up inside of her, begging to be released. She wouldn't give in now...she _couldn't._

She got up from the chair and hobbled to the bed in the corner of the living room, the one Morgan had set up for her so she didn't have far to walk. She sank down onto the bed, the walking stick clattering to the floor as she dropped it from her hand.

"I can't. _I can't forget it,_ " she said, her face turned toward the window, the barest hint of light visible in the distance, the waxing moon peeking out from behind the clouds. She could see the wildflowers growing along the side of the road: white and purple aster, angelica, dandelions, and oxeye daisies littered the fields as far as she could see…

 _Look at the flowers._

"Ya said it was worse than I knew. How bad was it?" he asked, gently sitting next to her, shoulder to shoulder, lending her his support in more ways than one.

She turned and buried her face against his bicep, avoiding his eyes, and he could feel her shuddering, grabbing his hand in her own, clutching onto it like a lifeline. She was gasping for breath, the kind of dry sobs and heaving you get before there are any tears.

" _I can't, I can't, I can't._ " She kept repeating the same muffled refrain, warm, damp puffs of air sliding over his skin.

She began crying, and Daryl wrapped his good arm around her shoulders as her voice trailed off, holding her until she gave in and leaned fully against him, letting him take her weight. She rested her head against his shoulder, his shirt dampening with salty tears.

"It's okay," he murmured against her hair, "it's okay. Shhh, shhh, it's okay."

"No! No, it's not okay! I did it," she said, her voice shaking, "I killed her."

Daryl's heart seized in his chest, his lungs felt empty, useless, immovable. He couldn't...no. He just waited for her to go on. He couldn't speak even if he had wanted to; his body wouldn't cooperate.

"She'd killed Mika. She was waiting for her to turn. Said Judith was next," she said, sounding far away, removed. Like she wasn't really there. "I had to do it. It had to be me. Ty couldn't…"

They sat there, side by side with the shadows lengthening and the room darkening, simply soaking in the presence of the only other person they either one trusted without reservation. The only other person with whom they could each be completely open and vulnerable. He was there with her, sitting silently, just like that day in the RV, offering himself. That's all he could do: be there with her, be uncomfortable with her, be broken with her.

As the time passed in silence, the crying abated, and they shifted until they were both prone on the bed, his back to the room, curled around her, his hand resting against her hip. From what he could tell, it was one of the few places on her body that wasn't bruised, stitched, or healing.

His face burrowed into the crown of her head, breathing her in, letting her surround him and blot out all the bad memories. His breath huffed out against her neck, warming her flesh, and every so often he would press his lips against her hair, loving the feeling of the soft, silky strands against his skin.

Ever so often, her breath would hitch, her chest would shudder, and a shaky sigh would emerge, and he knew she was still riding a wave of emotion. It would crest, break, recede, and rise again. His fingers would tighten ever so slightly against her waist, letting her know he was still there, still with her.

She wasn't alone. And just like that night in the shelter, she slept.

* * *

She woke in the morning to the sounds of clanging from the kitchen, and turned, feeling the cool sheets behind her, signifying he'd been awake for a while. Some things never changed.

Carol grasped around on the floor until she noticed he'd stood her walking stick up and propped it on the bed frame. Gripping it, she rose up from the bed, and limped to the kitchen, coming up short at the sight before her.

Daryl was dishing out some kind of meat from a cast iron skillet, (she wasn't at all certain when and how he'd caught the game, but her stomach growled in appreciation), onto two plates at the table, and in the center sat a bowl of mouth-watering juicy berries.

She looked up at him to catch a small, sheepish grin, and she smiled at him-a real one, not one of those she had to practice and plaster on at Alexandria. In that moment, she felt a spark of hope. She walked towards him, and he placed the skillet on the stovetop, freeing his hands to wrap around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug.

She wasn't unlovable. She wasn't a monster. He knew everything about her. All the good, the bad, the dark and ugly things she had done. He knew it, and nothing had changed. He held her in his arms, and she thought that maybe, just maybe, she could do this.

 _She could start over._


End file.
